


Are You Running Out Of Time?

by myrapf



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (basically), Alexander Hamilton POV, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, American Revolution, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Bittersweet, Blood and Violence, Culture Shock, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Historical, Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Memory Loss, Misery, Mutual Pining, Not Beta Read, Paranoia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racist Language, Reincarnation, Revolutionary War, Time Skips, Time Travel, Time Vortex, Triggers, Trippy Limbo, a time warp, or something, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9228509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrapf/pseuds/myrapf
Summary: Everything begins in 1777. Two years after hearing the news of the war and taking part in many battles, Alexander Hamilton receives a letter on behalf of Commander George Washington who has taken note of his work, sending for him to become an aide-de-camp. The same year, he meets John Laurens for the first time. Laurens is brute yet friendly, aggressive yet compassionate, and unlike anyone Alexander has met in his entire life. He falls irrevocably in love with him.Everything goes to hell in 1778. Suddenly, his Laurens is gone, and Alexander finds himself trapped in another time and place entirely. Everything is bright and different, and everything he’s known has become something else. In a world where strangers claim to be the people he once knew, there is only one question on his mind:What happened to John?





	1. Prologue

_Late January, 1777_

 

Mornings had always been his enemy. Every morning as the sun rose he would realize he had spent yet another night sleepless, writing instead of going to bed. He would have immersed himself in his work, and as the first rays of sunshine crawled into the room, he would stop. They bothered him. _Why must the nights have to end so quickly when I write?_

He would stop, and then he would think. In the moment when the sun appeared, there would be farmers who put on their work clothes; mothers who fed their babies; clerks who opened their shops; soldiers who went to fight in the war. Mornings were full of life, and Alexander Hamilton felt as tired as ever.

With a sigh he put his pen down and looked at his writing. It was far from finished, even though he had produced a full twenty-two pages. He could not go on with it now, or he would surely collapse from fatigue and ruin the piece in the process. In that way, the sun became his clock. In the evening he would start, and in the morning he would stop. It was not ideal, many people told him so, yet he could not bother to take their words to heart. It was his way to work and it was working excellent so far. He could gladly sacrifice sleep if it meant he could keep writing. It had been his passion for so long and he would not give it up even if it meant his life were at stake. One does not simply give up on such a beautiful thing, he knew. In the end, it probably would be the death of him.

He rose out of the chair and trudged over to the cot on the other side of the tent. He was grateful he had been given a bigger one, granting him the opportunity to write even as he served in the war. Just as he was about to fall onto his bed there was a commotion outside. He heard quick footsteps and the hooves of a horse, followed by neighing. He slowly turned his attention to the entrance of the tent and started approaching it.

“... A. Hamilton?” said a voice, the rest inaudible. He did not recognize the voice, and assumed it belonged to the man who must have just arrived on the neighing horse. “I am looking for an A. Hamilton, would you call him here?”

With another sigh, Alexander dragged his feet the last distance and lifted a flap to his tent to reveal himself.

“That would be me,” he said and squinted a little to see what was going on. He met eyes with a brunette man dressed in a postal uniform, sitting on the back of a dapple grey horse. His back was straight as he loosed the grip of the reins and gracefully got off the horse and landed in the same manner. In a small bag he carried at the hip he retrieved an envelope. Around the camp, a few soldiers showed their faces as their curiosity got the best of them.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said with a smile underneath his moustache before handing over the envelope facing the ground. “This is for you, sir. It was to be delivered at utmost urgency.”

Alexander looked between the envelope and the young man for a moment before grabbing it and turning it over. "A. Hamilton" was written in big squiggly handwriting, but what caught his eyes and made them widen was the sender address.

The postman bowed slightly. “Good day, sir.” Then he quickly sat up on his horse and disappeared, having many pairs of eyes watch him. Alexander did not look his way, but simply went inside the tent and let himself be severed from the outside world. He could not let go of the letter with his eyes, neither could he believe what he had done to receive it. He knew very well where the address led, and on whose behalf it had been written.

_But what does Commander George Washington want with me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers, this will be as historically accurate as I can manage while allowing the actual story to take place. Since there are many things we don't know for sure, for example if Hamilton and Laurens were really ever in love, some things will be pure speculation. So, naturally, there will be differences from actual history, but I will try to keep everything else accurate. After all, I'm no historian. However, this also means that the duels, battles, and deaths still happened. Heads up.


	2. Revelations

_October 28, 1777_

 

“This... God damn cold...” Alexander muttered as he huddled closer in on himself and desperately tried to retrieve some heat to his frozen fingers. Yet his methods of alternating between engulfing them in his hot breath and reaching out towards the campfire had not been largely successful, but he knew no other ways. Sitting on them just made him cold everywhere else. Perhaps the mere effort could do something to bring him warmth.

He had become seated near one of the campfires established around their current site, lighted now as the evening grew dark to show the way between all the tents. Further away he could see two more, one empty of people and the other having attracted a few soldiers who sat talking.

Alexander himself was alone around this fire as he tried to gain some warmth back. It had escaped him as the sun set over the horizon, and he had not yet wished to retreat to his tent and stuff himself into bed. As it turned out, he possessed the useless ability of growing cold easily. Ever since he had arrived in the Colonies it had been that way. Being stationed mainly in New York and the Northeast, the cold got to him, as his body seemed to hold onto the belief that he was still on Nevis or St. Croix; _tropical_ islands in the Caribbean. He, if anyone, was certainly not used to this climate, and therefore proceeded to freeze to the core every year as summer slowly transformed into fall. He had not yet been to the South and therefore could not speak with experience whether he would react the same there or not, but John had told him that fall was warmer and that in winter they were spared of all the snow. He looked forward to visiting, maybe John would take him someday.

 _John._ He looked over to the group of soldiers standing nearby, though not joining him by the fire. He watched as John patted another soldier on the back while smiling, then as he pointed to another one and said something inaudible because of the distance between them. The entire group must have heard clearly though, as they all burst into laughter. He could not help but smile even though he had not heard the actual joke. Just seeing his best friend enjoying himself to the extent that he had to clasp a hand to his stomach could put a smile on Alexander's face any day. John had only recently officially become an aide and part of Washington's "family", as it was called, but established new contacts and friendships quicker than a lightning bolt. It was his never-ending charm that drew people to him so easily, Alexander supposed. _Brilliant John._

He watched as John collected himself before resuming conversation, this time turning his back. His hair was in a loose braid, even looser from the day’s action, but he did not seem too bothered about it. Vague orange light danced over it as he had also turned his back on the fire, and Alexander could not keep himself from looking. He did not know for a fact what his fascination with John Laurens was. Perhaps it was because Laurens was so easily approachable and likeable, possessing some kind of natural charm that made other people flock to him. That almost seemed to be the case. Perhaps the fact that he had never really had a best friend, no normal friends either for that matter, had also played its part in it all. John was simply too kind, and they had found soon after meeting one another that they would go well together.

Suddenly, as if he could sense a pair of eyes on him, John whipped around and Alexander was too slow to look away unnoticed. John had a wide grin on his face, probably having just either heard or told another joke to the other soldiers. He could not help but thinking John should smile more. His friend was wearing a smirk most of the time, but often he would also look dead serious, or terrifying for that matter. When duty called, John Laurens transformed from a friendly joker to a deadly killing machine—strategic and effective—in mere seconds. Alexander preferred him in the former state, but admired him and had great respect for him out in the field as well. He smiled and waved at him with a small motion.

For the longest time, he had difficulties believing his luck when it came to John Laurens. Having happily accepted Washington’s request he had joined to serve as an aide just weeks after he’d received the letter. He’d met with Commander Washington and expressed his gratitude for this opportunity, feeling honored he had been picked. He had already turned down both Henry Knox and Nathanael Greene, both rather prominent back in the Continental Army, but he felt he could not turn down an offer when it came from George Washington himself. For Washington he would write until his fingers bled and manage any documentation needed if so were his duty. Through the first months of 1777 he served, until one day when everything ordinary changed.

It had been a sunny day in late spring. Alexander had decided against sitting outside, favoring instead to sojourn in the tent that held his temporary study, alone and shaded. He sighed determinedly and happily as he signed the very last bit of the paper, having compromised a rather long letter to Congress on behalf of the General. He would send for a delivery to arrive as soon as possible, hoping it would reach its destination within a week.

With a smile on his lips he stood and gathered up the few papers and lay them neatly in order. As he bent over the desk, strands of hair fell in his face, having loosened from the makeshift tie he had used to restrain his hair with. He quickly swept the red strands behind his ears and grabbed the papers, before turning on his heel to go inform General Washington. However, he did not make it further than the opening of the tent, where suddenly a man entered. Alexander stopped abruptly not to walk into him. They shared a look, and the by then unknown man had seemed surprised at how close Alexander was to him, having almost tripped right into him. Alexander had taken the moment to observe his face. He had noted his light blue eyes, soft in contrast with a rather strong jaw. He was taller than Alexander, more muscular and less graceful. His posture was straight as an arrow and he looked ready to do a salutation any second.

The moment seemed to pass crucially slow before the man had suddenly smiled. _“Hello,”_ he’d said cheerfully. The happiness in his voice threw Alexander off. He got the feeling he was a man of honor and great seriousness, yet he also gave off an attitude that was attractive and friendly. Immediately he felt intrigued by him. _“I’m looking for General Washington. Perhaps you could guide me?”_

Alexander smirked. _“What makes you so certain you are not looking at him?”_

John’s eyes had crinkled at the edges and he’d laughed.

_“Pardon me, but... You are shorter than they make you out to be, sir.”_

Alexander could not hold himself back and the tent bathed in their joyful laughter. As they settled down the man had extended his right hand.

_“John Laurens.”_

He had taken John’s hand.

_“Alexander Hamilton.”_

John had bowed. _“Pleased to meet you.”_ In that moment he gave such a genuine smile, Alexander felt his stomach flutter. In that moment, deep inside, he’d realized that sooner or later he would catch feelings for John, without a doubt.

Alexander shook his head and returned to the campfire. He convinced himself that “catching feelings” was a very strong set of words to use in this situation; he had simply understood what a terrific potential friendship it was that had presented itself in John. A friendship that had grown over a short time and which would now hopefully come to last for a much longer one.

John must have noticed something was off even though he’d been genuine with his small greeting, and exchanged a word with one of the men in the group. Steadily he then made his way over to him. Past him Alexander caught sight of the Marquis de Lafayette, a good friend of both his and Laurens, raising an eyebrow as his eyes wandered between Laurens’s back and Alexander’s face. He smiled in a way Alexander could not interpret the meaning of.

“Alexander!” said John as he approached the campfire, and Alexander followed him with his eyes. “Why are you sitting here all alone looking so gloom?” He did not have a chance to answer before John had positioned himself right next to him. His voice was filled with a humorous undertone. “You look as though your dog has just died!”

Alexander smiled. “You know that is not the case,” he responded and looked up at him. He was wearing a warm grin. They looked at one another for a moment before both of them broke into snickers and giggles.

“It is a simile,” clarified John and pushed his hand into Alexander’s shoulder with playful force. “You if anyone would know that with your incessant writing.”

“I know,” he resigned and chuckled, putting his hands up in surrender. “I know.”

John paused. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “Then tell me what is bothering you, friend.”

Alexander looked back and forth between his eyes for a moment before turning away. There was no point in trying to disguise his discomfort, for John could see right through him and the both of them knew that exceptionally well. But needed he tell the exact truth? He drew a deep breath and sighed into the fire.

“I don’t know what it is,” he lied. He knew lying to his best friend was a dishonest and terrible thing to do, but he had figured a long time ago that John could never know about this sort of thing. They would always share their thoughts, their perspectives and their inner hardships with one another to make these times somewhat easier. But this—this was different. John could never know. “I believe it is the war,” he tried, hoping John would take the bait. “It is taking its toll. And I’m up writing so much, I do not get enough sleep all days of the week. It is worth as much, though, I can manage. I just get tired.”

He was met with silence and thought for a moment that John had managed to make out the lie. Maybe he was looking at him with confusion on his face, or perhaps even disgust. Both proved to be wrong as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned from the fire back to John and looked into the most hopeful blue eyes he had ever seen.

“This war takes a toll on all of us, Alexander,” he said, and Alexander felt a tingle up his spine at the use of his full name like that. “I know how you feel. Every day I reach a new morning and wonder what it would be like to wake up in a soft bed, somewhere in a house with an open fire, having a loved one by my side.” His eyes had drifted over to the campfire still burning considerably, and Alexander tried not to picture himself in a bed with John, together back home in New York. John seemed to find himself having paused and cleared his throat, looking at their feet. “But I think about why I am here. Why I came here. What I am fighting for.”

He affixed Alexander with his eyes. Once again they looked at each other, but this time it felt like it lasted twice as long. He watched the way the orange light from the fire danced over John’s face, giving color to his fair skin.

“Alexander,” he said suddenly. “Tell me, why did you join the forces?”

Alexander opened his mouth to answer but closed it quickly again. Was there a point in not telling the truth anymore? He decided not to let himself get used to lying to the best thing that had happened to him in his entire life so far, and smiled.

“I could spend forever talking about why,” he answered. He had too many reasons not to serve, but he had not listened to the logical part of his brain. He had known one must fight for his desires to come true, and he had known there was no other way to gain freedom from England and their dubious methods of ruling over the colonies. The army needed every soldier they could possibly get their hands on, and Alexander knew he had to play his part.

“In short,” he continued. “I saw an opportunity. Freedom will not come out of nothing. There will be bloodshed and perhaps I will not make it out alive. But to me, it is good enough to know I fought and did what I could. I gathered a small force directly out of college, I fought in the army, I managed correspondence for General George Washington. To me, that will be enough to know if the battlefield becomes my resting place. I cannot help but hoping I live longer, though.” He smiled. “In my life I have been through so much already, and yet there is so much that I feel I have left to do.”

John watched him with a captivated look in his eye and smiled as well.

“Will you tell me someday?” In his voice was the eagerness of a child, even as he was the elder out of the two of them. There was also a soft friendliness, a genuine interest in someone he genuinely cared for. That was part of his inexplicable charm, and the reason Alexander’s insides felt as though they were fizzing.

“One day, Laurens,” he laughed, successfully hiding any other feelings. “The war will come to an end, sooner or later, and I will gladly join this fight if it means I get to fight for freedom. It is indeed not every day a man gets such an opportunity. I will serve in hopes of contributing to a better country, to a better America.” He subconsciously started to gesticulate with his arms flailing. “Under Washington’s command, you and I! This, my friend, is my shot, and I am not throwing away my shot.”

Laurens chuckled beside him. “That sounds wise.”

Alexander turned towards him and asked why.

“I like it,” he said simply. “It acts as a reminder that we are all as mortal as one another, it is very contemplative. I could always count on you being such a poet, could I not?”

With a click of his tongue Alexander rolled his eyes and Laurens laughed.

“It is true! We all have one shot to prove ourselves or it will be gone forever. Poetic and all!” Jokingly he put his arm around Alexander’s shoulders and moved closer to him with a grin on his face. “Admit as much, Hamilton!”

Alexander simply glanced at him with a smile before looking back at the fire. John did not say anything else, but Alexander noticed the way he observed him with a warm smile on his lips. It made his cheeks heat up a little in the evening growing ever colder. In silence like that they sat for a while, staring into the fire and simply taking up space.

For the next half an hour, time seemed to pass excruciatingly slow. Neither of them had much to do but sit by the campfire, Laurens with his arm still around Alexander as they watched the flames in all their fierceness slowly die. Alexander was not one to complain, however. The one man he cherished more than any other of his peers was there, his tall stature a source of warmth and security as they remained alone. The tranquility and closeness did not last for nearly as long as he had wished for it to.

“Come on,” said John suddenly and removed his arm from him. “I have got to be up in the morning, and soon you will leave for Albany. You need all the rest you can get until then.”

“I’m sorry I must leave,” replied Alexander with a sigh. John was right that they shouldn't wait up too long, but deep inside he felt burdened because of his awaiting mission. Of course he would go through with his duties, especially so under General George Washington, though he was not gladly acceptant of the idea of riding the three hundred miles to Albany to ask for troops from Horatio Gates, of all people. He had taken over as the head of the Northern Department after Philip Schuyler and been praised for his achievements since, though he had made a reputation for himself and come off as rather sly and dishonest. He knew he would have to tread lightly trying to demand forces from that man. Mostly though, he knew that he would be gone for long, meaning this acted as one of his last nights together with John Laurens for quite some time. He tried not to let that thought get to him. “It is what is best for the army and the General.”

“Indeed,” agreed John and stood up with a huff. “We need all the men we can get.” He turned to Alexander and reached a hand out for him. Gratefully Alexander accepted it and was pulled up on his feet, catching a smile from John with a twinkle in his eye that seemed to appear at completely inconsequent times. It was for a mere second before he started to lead the way, and Alexander followed suit. They bid farewell to the group of soldiers John had conversed with earlier and received a handful protests of staying up longer. John kindly declined all of them before wishing them a good night. Alexander did not say much except good night as well, and went along by John’s side as he headed off in the direction of their shared tent.

Their tent was by no means grand. It was simple and bland; long enough to hold two cots along either side and wide enough to be able to press a third one in between them if needed, had it not been for the supporting pole in the middle. They did not carry many belongings, and whatever they might possess was stored underneath the cots. One single oil lamp hung from a hook attached to the pole, out of fuel. Indeed, it was not much, but they were soldiers at war. They could neither store nor hold onto much more.

In silent unison the two men undressed and clad themselves in their night shirts. The tent provided little to no shielding from the chill of the night, and just like the two of them many soldiers therefore chose not to shed their undergarments. For further warmth they possessed multiple blankets and a fur, which became handy during the colder months of the year. As October slowly progressed into November the nights more often than not grew painfully frigid.

Alexander tried to tend to himself as much as possible, but it was difficult not to notice whenever Laurens undressed. Back in spring when the nights had yet to turn as cold he would sleep in only his underwear, exposing next to every square inch of skin on his body, and Alexander would have to force himself not to look. His mind told him that had been the first sign, but he wished not to listen. Laurens was taller and leaner than himself, and he could simply appreciate the look of a man who appeared similar to the gods of old Greek mythology. Many argued that was in fact the ideal, and if John Laurens happened to look similar, then he was attractive. Simple as that.

_I do not desire anything more from him. He is merely a good-looking fellow._

As the months had passed and the cold approached he found himself longing for a glance at Laurens’s bare chest again. Even just an accidental peek, it did not matter. As soon as that thought struck his mind, however, he had quickly attempted to dismiss it and remembered never to think of such a thing again. He had not succeeded with that but had not yet grown comfortable with the idea. That could lead to things, vile things as they said, that were by no law accepted. It would simply never happen.

“Alexander,” said Laurens as they had settled in their separate cots, and Alexander turned his face to look at him. They were enveloped in next to complete darkness; only a small pulse of light from the dying fire outside made Laurens visible on the other side of the tent. “Do not worry yourself with the war. It will end and we will march out of here victorious. I have not a doubt of it.”

Alexander smiled and hoped John would see it. “Thank you, Laurens.” He saw John nod in his direction before he turned over to lie facing the canvas. Suddenly a thought entered his mind. “Oh!”

Laurens immediately turned back to him. “What is it?”

He smiled. “Happy birthday.”

Laurens blinked at him for a moment, then smiled as well. “I cannot believe you remembered that.” He sounded genuinely in awe.

“I have an excellent memory and mind,” Alexander said and grinned.

“Indeed you do, my friend.” Alexander felt a warmth in his chest at Laurens’s words. “23 years.” He sighed with something happy in his voice before thanking Alexander. He then turned his back, and Alexander would not realize until about two minutes later that he still lay smiling.

He looked at his friend for a while, studying what little he could see outside the cocoon of blankets. John's naturally sandy brown hair was still in that messy braid. He had either not cared enough about it to let it out or he had simply forgotten. Alexander smiled. Somehow he found that humorous, or perhaps cute. He was allowed to think that. An interesting contrast was instantly created, as the rest of Laurens entire being was anything but cute or delicate in any way. He was tall and strong, willing to go unbelievable lengths for the things dearest to him. He was ferocious but still so compassionate, so untamed yet contemplative and caring. It was such a unique set of traits combined to create the man John Laurens, different from any other man in the camp or in Alexander’s entire group of acquaintances. He was John Laurens and he was beautiful.

As soon as the words entered his head Alexander had realized his mistake. He was letting his guard down, he should not be thinking such things. It was not accepted, not to be tolerated. Had Laurens been merely a friend, thinking highly of him would be a sign of respect and valued friendship. In Alexander, those thoughts inevitably led him down the path of things unholy.

_Who am I trying to fool?_

With a sigh he turned over on his back and let the bend of his arm cover his eyes. He could not go on like this forever. In his gut he felt it slowly building, and he knew one day it would all come crashing down on him. He hoped it would not be soon. He hoped the war would be over before then.

_I am in love with him._

Alexander would have groaned and sighed in misery had he not had Laurens trying to fall asleep right next to him. He felt jealous at the thought of not struggling with these feelings and wished for them to go away and let him sleep. He wished he could look at his best friend and not see what he saw. He wished he could hear his laughter and not feel the urge to smile at the mere sound of it.

_I am in love with him._

He sighed quietly. He knew there was no point in pretending as if he did not possess the feelings he did. There was no point in telling himself time and time again that these desires were wrong. He knew they were, but even with that knowledge he still could not seem to change. Ever since spring he had tried desperately to no avail. He bit his tongue as he allowed himself to accept the reality of the situation.

_I am unconditionally in love with him and I cannot change it._

The night had with once turned painfully revealing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I base descriptions of Laurens's appearance on the little information there is; a few miniatures and portraits; John Trumbull's _Surrender of Lord Cornwallis_ where supposedly he is portrayed next to Alexander Hamilton on the right. That kind of thing.


	3. The Battle Of Monmouth

_Early spring, 1778_

 

The months progressed rapidly as fall went by in a hurry, followed soon by a sinister winter. The cold took a hold of all of them, biting their faces and gnawing away at their skin as the winds grew stronger and more violent. Every soldier did his best to protect himself from the weather, but it was no less gruesome for this matter. At night they found themselves shaking, frozen to the bone even though they all remained clothed and buried underneath layers of covers. Even the strongest and warm-blooded man did not sleep safely and without his teeth chattering at least once during these times.

For Alexander Hamilton, the cold, wind and snow became a nightmare. As early as November he contracted a fever and wrote to the General he would not return south to Philadelphia until his health improved. However, that seemed to take longer than he had expected. He continued doing his best to lead the troops he had managed to receive from the North, but soon worsened. In a matter of days, he lay bedridden and sick. It was nothing he had any memory of, it had all become a blur of pain and cold in his entire body, but he had been told multiple letters were written about him and his state, and that it had been nowhere stable. He had fallen close to death, but had towards the beginning of December miraculously reclaimed good health.

He had thought himself fine and felt as though he could return to Washington’s side, but had been proven wrong once again as he collapsed just weeks after getting rid of the sickness. Finally, in January he could once again join the other aides near Philadelphia, and was greeted warmly by his friends, with John Laurens and the Marquis de Lafayette in the lead. Though, he could no longer remain awake to write or manage any correspondence, for he would find his fingers stiff and frozen, unable to hold the pen for a minute longer. He was forced to bed, but neither while in his cot could he seem to get any peace of mind anymore. He lay awake often as John lay beside him, listening to the whining of the wind and the way the branches of naked trees whipped around outside, appearing as awfully large clawed hands, reaching for the dark skies above. Underneath his covers he had desperately tried to keep the heat from escaping him and had to constantly either rub at his arms or turn around on his other side to maintain warmth. Soon, John had grown mad with him.

“Alexander, I swear on all things holy,” he had threatened and looked over. Though he couldn’t see Laurens through the darkness, Alexander could imagine what his expression must look like judging by his tone of voice. He was not content. “If you keep moving around like this. I will strangle you.”

“You will not,” Alexander bit back, his temper quickly running away from him and his mood residing in the lower parts of the scale. “This wind is so cold it will kill me first, I am sure of it now. However much I toss and turn I am still feeling it biting through these layers and it is driving me insane, Laurens, insane!”

In a fit of explosive rage he thrashed around for a second as he failed to sever his body from the cold air by stuffing the ends of his covers underneath himself. It did not work in the slightest and his temper had already been tested enough.

“You are being noisy,” argued Laurens with a huff. “Simply lie still and it will be easier to fall asleep.” The sound of his cot creaking suggested he turned away again. Alexander could not help but click his tongue.

 _It is not that easy._ He found himself thinking of an entire collection of snappy things to direct at his friend but decided not to say any of them out loud. Better not take it out on him, after all.

That night he had managed to fall asleep after quite some struggling—other nights he had not been so lucky. Certain times it had taken him hours, other times he had barely fallen asleep at all. Knowing there would be an end to it all made him even happier than expected as spring arrived.

Finally as February came, the snow started to disappear. With spring, Alexander hoped for countless days of sun and warmth, blooming trees and green fields that could take his mind off the war if only for a minute. With the happiness of a child he observed as winter melted away before him as he sat writing; as he laughed with Laurens; as he got to know the others; as General Washington told him to take a break for the day and go outside for once.

It was a beautiful sight as a vibrant green broke through the white snow and ice, as leaves started to grow on their abandoned trees. As birds started chirping and butterflies were seen again, Alexander thrived. The cold and the snow had taken its toll on him, and he could for once feel the tension lift from his shoulders. John seemed happy too. As soon as the night temperature had risen enough for them to shed all the layers, John went back to sleeping without a shirt on again. Alexander both enjoyed and suffered at the sight; enjoyed it because John was yet to become more unattractive, and suffered because he was not allowed to touch and explore it with his hands. The thought of it brought color to his cheeks, but he did not say a peep about it to anyone. They could simply never know.

In all, spring brought warmth and new hope, a new fire burning in their hearts as they lay out their strategy and prepared for more battles. Then, in late June, things took a turn for the worse.

The Battle of Monmouth did not come as a surprise for any of them. They were well prepared to take on the British and claim what was rightfully theirs, yet they made it through to a terrible outcome. Alexander remained in a sour mood even as they marched for an attack. Some may have called him childish, but the grudge he held was—in his eyes—entirely rational. A few told him to give it a chance, but he would rather eat his shoes than let such a mistake slide.

For weeks on end he had begged and tried to negotiate with General Washington for a group of men to lead on his own, as he by this point had become the General’s trusted right hand man. He thought highly of his own skills in leadership, he was qualified and beyond willing and he was incredibly driven to fight and march into victory. However, the General must not have shared his opinions, as he was continuously met with rejection. Even as Alexander had lead men through battle earlier, as far back as when the British occupied New York, Washington had decided that he could gladly wait. He had argued with the General and done so expertly and professionally, yet Washington had not yielded still. Instead of him, he chose to promote Charles Lee.

Charles Lee possessed the mind of a reclusive coward whilst inhabiting the body of a weak aristocrat. It seemed as though he did not even possess any desire to lead, neither was his leadership desired in any man in the group of aides. Yet, he was still appointed to the position of second-in-command under General Washington. Alexander had not with his stubbornness been able to let it go, and ranted to John as soon as he had a chance. John had tried to remain calm, but soon grew to hate Lee equally, if not more than Alexander did. With his temper, Alexander supposed this was nothing strange, and was happy he had his best friend on his side.

* * *

_Late June, 1778_

 

During the Battle of Monmouth, Charles Lee finally put his bravery and skills to the test. It became evident then to anyone who had not yet gained the knowledge that he was about as talented at leading as a pigeon was at doing business. During the battle they needed directions, they needed a plan for how to mobilize and how to strike—Lee, of course, provided none. In the heat of the moment when he should have been the greatest minds of them and showed his willingness, he chose to retreat. And not once, but multiple times. Alexander watched General Washington grow more and more agitated with his second-in-command and thought perhaps it would change his opinion on things, if they were to make it out alive of this infernal mess. Continuously retreating proved to be a disastrous tactic, as General Lee soon came to fall behind his troops, seemingly without any will left to fight. Outraged, General Washington commanded the Marquis de Lafayette to seize the command, and he proved to be a better leader than most of the other aides could dream of. Thankfully the General had come to his senses and hopefully the treacherous Charles Lee would pay for what he had done. The immense heat did nothing to aid them either, as they probably lost more of their soldiers to heat stroke than to the British.

However, what struck Alexander more than the rage and disgust he possessed for Charles Lee or the hellish heat was the sheer horror he experienced soon after the battle. In his days, many terrible things had happened, many of which he did not deny. The closest call he’d had was shortly after Brandywine in September, when he had been presumed dead in the Schuylkill after fleeing the escape boat under attack and struggling with the current. He later found out the General had received a letter stating he had been lost to the river, and had a good laugh with the others. John Laurens, for one, had burst with joy as he found the letter untrue, yet had only a short time earlier been devastated and did not hold back expressing those feelings. During the time in between the arrival of the letter and his return to the headquarters, it couldn’t have been too humouros. The Battle of Monmouth introduced Alexander to what he could only imagine was a similar kind of chilling fear to that which Laurens had felt all those months ago.

After they returned, bruised and battered, things had been chaotic. Having fallen from his horse and damaged himself badly, though still being in good enough condition to travel by foot, Alexander tried navigating through the masses. Men were taken to the medical tent left and right, some fell to the ground in heaps because of fatigue and many were simply not with them anymore. On the 29th, Alexander quickly noticed the absence of John Laurens. He did not think much of it, as John had been appointed the position of doing reconnaissance before the battle and therefore had left early. Alexander had wished him good luck, and he had smiled back at him.

 _“I don’t depend on such silly things as luck,”_ had John said with a twinkle in his eye. _“I prefer to use my admirable set of skills instead.”_

Alexander had grinned at his joke and shaken his hand firmly. _“Do your very best then, John.”_

John had given his hand a quick and reassuring squeeze. _“Always, Alexander.”_

In a couple of seconds he had disappeared with a few others, leaving the rest of them behind as they stately rode on their horses.

It was not until he heard whispers between the men that he started to worry himself. He heard mentions of Laurens and him being missing, he heard words of him falling off his horse, words of him being shot, words of him being... Alexander did not want to imagine the things he heard. _It cannot be._ Driven to find his best friend and prove his fellow soldiers wrong, he searched amongst them, frantically and perhaps too aggressively as he earned a few glares and sneers.

John was nowhere to be found. The panic that had built in his chest started to rise and replaced every other emotion, like an electric current strong enough to deal massive pain yet weak enough to keep him alive the shock and sorrow wrapped around him like a sinister, slithering snake. _It cannot be. Oh, please, it just cannot be._

With a burning determination and an even fierier and aching heart he burst through the entrance to their medical tent that had now been considerably more filled since the battle, and though he wished not to find John wounded it would be better than to not find him at all. He scoured the many cots that held men groaning in agony or men passed out because of the pain, all the while as his breath hitched in his throat and as the pain in his head pulsated stronger and stronger. _Good Lord, I beg of you, please..._

“Alexander.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, nearly falling over himself as the sound of the familiar voice reached his ears, and he whipped his head around towards the source of it. The sight was enough to bring him tremendous relief, as if though a bucket of water had been emptied over his head, but it had been so during winter time and the water had frozen in an instant all around. Indeed, it was not a pretty sight before him.

“Oh, dear, John...”

Quick on his feet, Alexander strode towards his friend resting two cots away, his arm still risen slightly to draw attention to himself. Carefully Alexander lowered it for him again and, with some difficulty, came down on his knees by the bedside.

“There is my... admirable set of skills for you,” he said with a hoarse voice and grinned. Alexander wanted to smile because of Laurens’s maintained humor even though he was clearly in pain, but felt too saddened of what he saw to do so.

Laurens’s face was bruised to say the least. The left side of his eyebrow ridge was slightly swollen, as was his left eye. A big, black mark bloomed around it horridly and Alexander dared not touch his face even to show his sympathy for fear it would hurt him. His upper lip had a small split in it and his cheekbone bore a bruise as well, though not as dark as the one around his eye. The right side of his face was mostly fine except a minor cut by the nose, and his entire face still had spots of dirt on it.

“John, what happened to—"

“Oh, don’t start with all that," interrupted John with a groan and turned his head to look up at the canvas ceiling, still with a smile on his lips. “Nothing is broken or sprained so please, do calm yourself.”

Alexander couldn’t bring himself to tranquility in the slightest as John’s beaten face lay before him like this. _Who did this?_

“John—”

“Alexander,” he said sternly and turned his head back to look him in the eye. “I swear, you will worry yourself to death one day. I am fine.”

Alexander blinked back and felt an anger blossoming inside of him.

“What happened to you?”

“Does it matter?”

Alexander’s voice came out harsher and less controlled than he would have wished. “Yes, because I couldn’t find you earlier and I was concerned.”

“Well, I am here now and—”

“I thought you were dead!”

A few of the soldiers still conscious in the surrounding cots glared at him at the sudden outburst, but he could not care for them at the moment. John stared at him as well as he could with one eye being almost entirely shut.

“What?”

Alexander took a deep breath and looked down at his knees. “I thought you were dead, John. The other men, they...” He sighed and looked up while trying to hold his anger and sadness back. “I heard whispers between them, rumors. They said things, they said you had fallen, gone missing. They said the Lieutenant Colonel had taken a bullet, been killed...” He could barely bring himself to utter those last, harrowing words and bit his lower lip. It was not enough to stop the hitch in his breath and he quickly apologized as he had to look up to avoid shedding a tear. The mere thought of losing John Laurens and never again having the privilege of speaking to him simply put too much of a pressure on his psyche.

There was silence for a while as Alexander did the best he could not to show himself weak and cry in front of all of the medical staff and wounded soldiers, or John for that matter. Indeed, a man should be concerned for his best friend and not be afraid to show that, but fear filled Alexander as he knew he considered John as so much more than his closest friend. Even though he would never speak of it and ached because of this, he would not risk anything potentially revealing.

“I am so sorry.”

Alexander shut his eyes and sniffled shortly before turning back to John again. His expression had changed entirely from calm and collected to concerned and even regretful, and Alexander felt his gut twisting.

“No, you couldn’t have known,” he protested and swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“I could have sent for you.” John looked at him with his mouth slightly open and a smudge of blood on his front teeth became visible. Alexander pitied him more and more every second. He must be in a lot of pain even though he claimed all was fine. “I knew you would throw yourself in a fit if you saw me like this. That is why I did not send for anyone to go fetch you for me.” He sighed. “Clearly, I did not think this through, as you have found me nonetheless and I have caused you pain in the process.”

Alexander could not hinder a small smile from appearing on his face. “You couldn’t actually believe I would _not_ do all in my power to find you after hearing all those things?”

John instantly smiled back and he felt relieved. “No. You are very correct in that, I suppose.”

There was a moment of tenderness shared between the two of them before John spoke again.

“My horse was shot out from under me.”

Alexander looked at him for a second. “That is how you got these bruises?” he asked. John nodded and laughed weakly, while Alexander laughed considerably more. “Oh, John, that is... Thank the Lord.”

“You thought I had been socked in the eye by a musket, did you not?” Although his voice was thin, his grin was wide and warm.

Alexander hid his eyes underneath his hand as another wave of relief, this time pure, washed over him. “Yes,” he said, slightly wheezing from the laughter. “Oh, John...”

As he had calmed down he wiped a tear of joy from the corner of his eye and looked at John with a genuine smile.

“It must have looked so ridiculous,” pondered John and shook his head as he supposedly remembered the scene. “One second I was galloping on my horse after being spotted by the British, the next I was lying on the ground with my face in the dirt. They shot that bastard right out from underneath me, I swear it felt as though it vanished in thin air. I hit my head quite hard, evidently by the look of things.”

He raised his hand and gestured to his face, and they both snickered.

“I’m glad they shot the horse and not you.”

John smiled warmly. “Indeed. In some miraculous way I got up and started running and got picked up by one of the other lookouts. He delivered me safely back here.”

“Remind me to thank him to the stars and back,” Alexander remarked quietly and made John laugh.

“You have my sincerest apologies though,” John muttered and sighed. “I am afraid I must remain here a couple of days. They wouldn’t let me go immediately even though I have merely scrapes and grazes.”

Alexander clicked his tongue. “John, you have a black eye.”

John scoffed. “Some ice and I would be just fine. However, they seem very persistent and I do not wish to challenge them to anything. A few of the nurses here are quite good at scaring you into agreeing with them.”

Alexander snickered and cast a glance over his shoulder as if to make sure none of the nurses were in proximity to hear them before turning back. “You will be out of here soon enough, John.” Carefully he reached for John’s hand and gripped it. “Just be nice to them, will you?”

“Alright,” he said and gave Alexander’s hand a squeeze, just as he had done the day before when he’d left on horseback. “But simply because you asked me to.”

Alexander instinctively laughed out loud before he could contain himself, his own injuries long forgotten. “I make a compelling argument.” He rose to his feet and brushed the dirt off his knees with his free hand. “Now rest. You need it.”

John looked at him and nodded, the right corner of his mind rising in a smirk. “I will.”

“Good.” Alexander nodded back with a minimal motion before finally letting go of John’s hand. Then he turned around and started making his way to the exit. As he reached it he looked back for just a moment, and met eyes with John looking back at him from the far side. He could see him smiling, and it prompted him to smile as well. Bruised and aching, John Laurens was still the very same man inside. It sparked a fire inside of him, a heat source strong enough to carry him through anything. John Laurens was not a man who gave up, and as long as Alexander had him by his side the two of them would be unstoppable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am entirely unaware of what happened to Laurens and Hamilton during and after the Battle of Monmouth. I only know that Laurens acted as a reconnaissance and that they were both wounded in battle as they had their horses shot out from under them. What happened beyond that point in this story is purely speculation and fiction.


	4. Ballroom Blitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently lay my hands upon the Alexander Hamilton biography by Ron Chernow after weeks of waiting, which is why some things in the previous chapters have changed. Although I've tried staying historically accurate up until this point, the biography and the 150 pages that I've read in the last few days have supplied a lot of detail that I was unaware of until now. I'm very excited to continue with this, and I hope you are too! 
> 
> (Sorry for not posting in a long time, I do a lot of stuff on my spare time and also school exists. I accidentally posted chapter 6 prematurely so HOLD ON until I can post it with context!)

_December 22, 1778_

 

“It’s a disgrace for the people of the Colonies and _must_ be abolished!”

“Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, they are less civilized people—mere workforce lacking the wits to even protest. It’s only right, what we’re doing. Certainly, it is a race that cannot understand any better.”

“Objection!”

“Oh for... Hamilton, this isn’t a courtroom!”

“Objection indeed, Major Edwards. They are no less people of this nation than we are ourselves, and it is frankly shameful you speak of the people in such vile ways!”

A cold evening breeze swept by them where they stood by the campfire, and the flames flickered in the wind. Many of the other aides had taken their leave already, most had done so simply after Major Edwards's arrival around half an hour ago. The look Alexander shared with John Laurens might have been enough of a cue that an argument was to take place, and if they’d rather not expose their ears to such a thing they better be gone. This only left a handful, scattered around the fire.

Major Edwards scoffed at the two of them with a look of superiority in his eyes. “You both are hypocrites.” Behind him his entourage consisting of two of his fellow soldiers exchanged a short fit of snickers, as if they were all a collection of little schoolboys.

“At least _we_ are fighting,” shot Alexander at him. “And for the better cause. You and your lot there are simply standing by watching it all unfold, as these poor people are whipped and bound to work hours on end out in the fields! And for what?”

Edwards only laughed and Alexander felt the blood boil in his veins. He was astonished about how this man could act as if he didn’t pay a single care to the entire issue. How could he remain so calm? And if Alexander was angry, John was furious. His hands were clenched at this sides and his shoulders had tensed. He looked as if though he were faced with a British in the very flesh, rambling about America and its insufficiency and insignificance. It was a matter of time, Alexander knew, before he would explode.

“You mean to say you two consider the negroes as _equals?_ ” said Edwards with a glaringly nonchalant tone of voice, his eyebrows hitched high. Alexander pictured himself smacking a fist into the side of the major’s disgustingly sly face.

His and John’s answers were given in agitated and nearly impeccable unison. “Yes!”

“These _beasts_ of Africa with no bond to the colonies, whatsoever?” continued Edwards with a played growing surprise. “You two would gladly take one of those for a neighbor?”

“They deserve this land as much as we do,” said Alexander and looked up at Edwards under a furiously furrowed brow.

The major finally threw a look Alexander’s way, one filled with such a sense of loathing that Alexander almost wrinkled his nose in disgust back at him. He settled on retaliation by just squinting distastefully. The major clicked his tongue. “Easily said by the immigrant, I suppose.”

Before Alexander could defend himself, John had barged in between them. With his fists raised he readied himself and charged, reaching Edwards in the blink of an eye, and around them cries of surprises and protests broke out. Edwards’s collar wrinkled violently as John’s hand made contact with and closed around it, and Edwards flinched just as violently. On his face, John’s expression had altered to that of something wilder, ready to strike on impulse to defend himself or the ones closest to him. The scene must have been terrifying to witness for anyone unfamiliar with Laurens’s tendency to easily anger, because even with that knowledge it was frightening. Now, it was much akin to the face he wore during battle, the regular warmth and happiness sucked out of it.

“Laurens,” warned Alexander carefully, almost posing the name as a question. John either didn’t hear him or he completely disregarded him. His eyes were trained on Edwards’s, who stared back at him with a concerned wrinkle on his forehead.

“Say that again,” hissed John through gritted teeth, and Alexander felt a shiver rapidly punch its way up his back. The contempt in John’s voice was pure and low, nearly a growl, and over it lay a hint of something feral that Alexander found shook him to the bone. “Say that again,” continued John louder and tightened his grip, jerking Edwards closer. “And I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, you incompetent sewer rat. I swear I’ll—”

“John!” The name came out much harsher than he’d intended, but made John hesitate nonetheless. For a minute the two of them remained still while glaring at one another, before John finally let go of Edwards with a shove that made him stumble a few steps backwards. Edwards audibly inhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath, and started correcting his disheveled collar. John regarded him with a blank look on his face, standing tall and reaching his full height which made him look like more of an authority than anyone of those around him. Alexander thought for a moment he’d make a terrific commander.

“What a temper,” grumbled Major Edwards and threw an evil eye at John, his friends doing the same. Alexander nearly regretted he had interfered to keep John from throwing punches, but had to accept it was probably better than having John leap amok and see where it brought them. Washington would be incredibly disappointed, he knew that, and he’d be mad to find out one of his most trusted men had dealt a blow instead of discussing the issue, while his correspondent acted spectator. He’d grow even madder if he were to find out the true purpose of Major Edwards’s presence, and ever since Alexander had inquired on leading a battalion of his own they needed not yet another reason for their relationship with General Washington to be strained.

“You make your opinion well heard,” replied John with a deep breath, calming his nerves, and rested his hands behind his back. Throwing a glance at them, Alexander saw they were clenched to such an extent that the knuckles turned white while hidden from Major Edwards’s view.

“As do you,” spat Edwards and raised an eyebrow at John, whose hands unclenched for a second only to strain once more. So did his jaw as he maintained eye contact with Edwards, and it looked as if though he would either crush his teeth or make himself bleed, the way his nails dug into the palms of his hands. It was a worrisome sight; they hadn’t even come face to face with Lee himself yet but only his _aide._

Not even a month after the fiasco that had taken place at Monmouth, Charles Lee, to Alexander’s great joy, had faced repercussions for his actions in an official court-martial. Prompted by General Washington, Lee had soon after the battle fallen under arrest for leading the patriot forces disgracefully and possessing the courage of a coward when in such a prestigious and significant position. In need of a strong leader, Charles Lee had betrayed them, and should face punishment accordingly. A traitor, almost equal to as if he had been leaking information to the British himself. They had needed justice, and whatever the outcome Alexander swore that he would never look upon General Lee as anything more than the treacherous and unforgivable filth he was.

Along with majors, generals and the rest of Washington’s trustworthy aides, they had gathered in early July to put Charles Lee down once and for all, and joyfully succeeded. Alexander had stood to testify against the scum of a General that Lee had been, not shying from providing a detailed description of the battle from his own perspective. He spoke of how he had furiously ridden by the General to encourage him back into battle, telling him to stand back up and fight as he had so measly retreated.

He spoke with intricacy of how Lee had refused such a thing as returning towards the British forces, and took the opportunity to mention the consequences and the deaths that the patriots had suffered because of this. As he had finished, there were many more witnesses to go, and Alexander had smiled for himself as he knew something wicked with certainty was coming Lee’s way. Of course, he had been proven right, and they had all celebrated for a brief moment as they watched the military career of General Lee crumble to pieces in front of their eyes. Infuriatingly enough, that did not seem to be the end of him. Charles Lee was without a doubt a most unintellectual man, as he despite the court’s decision to terminate his military career continued to slander the name of General George Washington and his army. Alexander could not have it, and John Laurens made himself very vocal on the matter.

 _“You must challenge him,”_ he had said with both anger and delight in his voice. _“A man with your skill and intellect, you must!”_

 _“Undoubtedly,”_ agreed Alexander, _“his actions to keep disrespecting the commander makes him even more of a swine. I have no sympathy on any matter for a man of his nature and character. However, I don’t think I’m the right man for such a thing as pointing a pistol at him.”_

 _“But you are brilliant,”_ had John argued, and Alexander had tried dismissing the statement and thinking of it as the plain compliment that it was, nothing more. _“If not with a pen, then on the dueling ground. I have not a doubt in my mind that you could show that filthy, treacherous, lying son of a—”_

 _“John.”_ He had found that more often than not, John listened as Alexander said his name in a cautionary fashion, and became silent also this time.

He muttered something much alike to, _“You should.”_

 _“I will not,”_ elucidated Alexander. _“It’s not something Washington would approve of. His right hand man, running around to pick fights with low-lives such as Lee would only seem pathetic. It cannot be me.”_

John looked at him for a moment of silence. _“But you do wish to silence him, do you not?”_

 _“If I did not,”_ replied Alexander, _“I would not have had a very great set of morals. Or an ounce of integrity, for that matter.”_

The two of them had sunken into a minute of silence, pondering. What went on inside John’s mind, Alexander couldn’t have guessed at the time, though it could not have been very calm and rational ideas swiveling around in there.

_“Will you consider it?”_

Alexander had sighed. Though he considered duels to indeed be prestigious, he felt it wouldn't improve anything if he was to dive head first into one with General Lee. Not considering the risks. _“I think not, my dear Laurens. My apologies.”_

John remained quiet for a few seconds. _“Then I’ll do it.”_

“It’ll be an utmost pleasure,” continued Edwards as neither of the two said anything more, “to watch you on the dueling ground, Lieutenant Colonel.” With a sly grin he reached a hand out for John to take, and for a moment Alexander pictured himself breaking the major’s fingers and leaving him helpless. He remained still. John stood equally still, just looking at Edwards’s hand before finally providing his own in what became a very strained handshake. The two of them did not break eye contact for several seconds. “The best of luck.”

“The same to you, Edwards,” replied John through gritted teeth, and the sight of the major smiling made Alexander want to throw up his scarce dinner. The two men let go of their hands while staring intently at one another before Edwards bowed slightly and mockingly to them and bid farewell. Alexander sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his chest as he observed him walk away.

“I recommend you learn to control yourself, Laurens,” remarked Edwards suddenly and nonchalantly over his shoulder, but could not be bothered to turn around. Alexander thought for a moment he must be a snake, the way he felt the constant need to comment and patronize them like this. A foul and wretched snake. “It is not a very flattering look all that anger causes on your face. You should smile more.” With that, he kept walking.

“Don’t pay him any mind,” tried Alexander and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder to calm him down, even as his own rage was bordering on blinding in the very moment.

“How can I possibly not mind?” burst John and glared after Edwards and his small entourage as they disappeared around a bend full of trees and erased themselves from their sight. “He is acting a fool with the attitude of a bumbling idiot, fully aware that he’s bothering the living soul out of me!”

“Because you’re letting him.”

John ripped his eyes away from where Edwards had disappeared and turned to Alexander. He sighed and gave a smile without any joy in it and shook his head. “I wish I couldn’t. The mere idea of slavery disgusts me to such great extents, I cannot tolerate it when a man claims he does not oppose of it, but directly _encourages_ it. It’s... it’s _vile_.”

“I know, Laurens,” said Alexander with his utmost empathy and let go of John’s shoulder. “You know that I stand with you on this, and I despise Edwards for saying those things. It’s dishonorable, even as it’s just a trick of his, playing dirty games. He’s going out of his way trying to provoke you, and I hope you see that.”

John looked back towards the trees. “I do,” he said and sighed while crossing his arms over his chest. “However, that makes it none the more acceptable.”

“Of course not,” agreed Alexander. ”He is yet to be less of a scumbag.”

John threw a glance at him and smiled. “Indeed,” he said, and even Alexander could not hold himself from smiling then. “Indeed, indeed, dear friend.”

For a moment they stood, John watching the trees and Alexander watching John. A small wrinkle remained on his forehead, conveying he still had difficulties letting go of the scene. Admittedly, so did Alexander, but he was aware of the general struggle John faced whenever he was angered and had to let it go, a struggle he himself did not experience to such a degree.

“Come with me,” he said as a diversion, and received a curious look as he signaled for John to follow along. He smiled meekly at him. “It’s beginning to get rather late. More sleep than usual has never hurt anyone, has it?”

John’s faced shifted from curiosity to a confusion so strong it only deepened the wrinkle on his forehead, before suddenly a wide smile replaced it all. “That is with most probability the strangest thing I have ever heard come from you, Alexander.”

They shared a laugh as John started strolling, and Alexander accompanied him close by his side. They acted as an interception of real life, these rare and oh-so-sacred moments when they were entirely alone. Nobody could be spotted around them, and for a moment Alexander wondered what it would be like to quickly turn and grab his friend by the face to express his desires in complete freedom. Such were his thoughts and dreams, longing for something he could never have. He could dream, but dreams were never as sweet as real experiences. That, he had learned with age, even though he had yet to reach twenty-five. Supposedly, he forced himself to admit, that was simply the way of life. It was cruel and unfair but there was nothing to be done about it other than accept it and move on. No matter how little he fancied it, so it must be.

As they reached the tent through the darkness of the night, guided by the glow of the campfires, Laurens immediately strode to his cot and planted himself on it, his legs spreading. He seemed concerned, almost burdened.

“I apologize for getting so riled up,” he said, as if he could hear Alexander’s inner thoughts and worries, and threw a glance at him by the entrance. “I assume I’m just...” He paused for a moment, and his eyes seemed to latch onto something right above Alexander’s left shoulder. “Nervous.”

Alexander smiled softly and sat down on his own makeshift bed. “You have every right to be, John.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I know, I just... I do not need it putting all these ghosts in my head when I’m only hours away from this duel.”

“You will win.” John’s eyes snapped back to him, and he provided another warm smile. “I would bet everything I own, although it’s not much I’m afraid, that you will win this fight.”

John looked at him as if he, for a moment, had been stunned by his words, then returned the smile. His skin wrinkled in beautiful laughter lines, and Alexander felt as though a smile like that could certainly make him walk through a desert just so that he could see it again.

With a sigh, though not a burdened one, John rubbed at his face. “I swear,” he continued and pointed to Alexander, who watched his friend intently. In his eyes was a familiar spark. “One day, you and I shall lead the first black battalion against the British, and we shall march out victorious. Tomorrow, we’ll show Lee that we are so much more than he thinks we are. We’ll show Edwards that we were right all along, and he’ll pay for it all as he has to sourly watch us reach the heights.” Almost dramatically, he clenched his fist in the air. “Prosperity is in reach, my friend!”

A laugh escaped Alexander’s lips and John looked at him expectantly. “You always were the idealist, I suppose,” he said with a smile, humored by the little show.

Laurens raised an eyebrow and his arm fell to rest over his knee. “Don't pretend as though that is something you wouldn't wish for too, Alexander.”

“Oh, I do wish for it,” said Alexander truthfully, and repositioned himself as he crossed his arms over his chest. “But I know such a thing will not easily be granted us. We must fight as though the world depended on it. One can dream, but unless one acts and properly gets the job done, there won’t be much of a change.” He realized the deeper meaning of those words the second they had passed his lips, and damned himself for being such a hypocrite.

John looked at him for a while before breaking out in a smile. “Poetic.”

“Guilty as charged,” replied Alexander with a shrug, but smiled back.

“We will act,” said John calmly, and even nodded his head out of enthusiasm for the topic. It was obvious to any spectator, this was clearly a passion of his, a dream which he sought to make reality as soon as he possibly could. “That is what we are doing, and we will fight for it, no matter what it might take.”

“You still must get through Congress with such a suggestion,” replied Alexander shortly. “And as we both know, Congress is not in its best condition during these times, ineffective and all. _Hopefully_ not in its best condition, at least.”

John laughed with a wide grin on his face. Whenever he laughed genuinely, the sound made shivers run up Alexander’s spine. It was whole-heartedly and warm enough to melt through the ice surrounding the soul of even the toughest cynic. Laurens’s laughter could relax his entire body, and that was a quality Alexander had yet to find in any other human being.

“Let’s hope to God it is not,” agreed John and heaved himself up from the cot with his hands on his knees. “Oh, I can’t wait to see the look on Lee’s face as he declares himself beaten. Or as I put a bullet in him. That would be desirable as well.”

“You mustn’t _murder_ him, John,” said Alexander and smiled at his friend as he too got up, humored by the comment. He stopped a few feet away from John. “That would be such a pain for both the aides, Washington, and myself. I mean, with me as your lawyer you wouldn’t end up being prosecuted, of course, but...”

John hummed at him disapprovingly as he raised an eyebrow, and Alexander grinned teasingly.

“My hero,” he said, and Alexander decided to give a little bit for once, bowing excessively before him. It seemed to work, as John laughed again. “A knight in shining armor, saving me from peril once more. We’d simply escape from all trouble, and surely then we could spend the rest of our lives together—a true fairytale!”

Alexander flinched at the words even as he kept smiling. It was the way John emphasized it with such humor in his voice, as if he truly thought it a joke but cared too little not to compare it to a romantic fairytale. Or maybe he didn’t even know how it could be perceived in a romantic fashion. Still he seemed genuine, and Alexander couldn’t comprehend the contrast enough to respond in a way other than just smiling. “You’re being dramatic, John.”

“Me?” he exaggerated and put a hand to his chest. “Oh, my dear Alexander, I am not. It is but a dream!” Bowing himself now, John extended a hand to him, and Alexander watched it incredulously. It took him a second before he realized its purpose; he was asking for a dance. The fact that it being only for committing to the little scene he had set up with his jokes tore into Alexander a bit, but he forced himself to smile nonetheless. If only it had been for the sake of just dancing together, holding one another close.

He smiled and huffed a laugh. “John, this—”

“Just, take my hand.”

As Alexander looked John in the eye he was surprised by the kindness in them. They were icy blue and cold, but could somehow come off as warmer than the most hazel or auburn ones Alexander had seen. That in itself must be some form of art, Alexander figured. With a careful movement he raised his hand and let it rest in John’s, and was swept up in a dance that John led as if though he had danced for years and years beforehand. They transpired into a waltz that simply spun around the small space they had in the tent where movement was even possible, and Alexander laughed at the absurdity of it. What would the others say if they knew he was here dancing with John late at night while they were outside drinking and boasting and having a simple laugh? He found it was more fun than he’d had in months, and felt the relief as he finally let his shoulders relax.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” he said and looked up at John’s face, which smiled back to him. Their mere proximity made something in his gut feel warm, and it worked to fight off the cold air around them.

“Neither did I know _you_ could,” replied John softly, a surprise in his voice that made Alexander feel flattered. It felt nice to impress his friend with such a thing as being able to dance a simple waltz.

“Where did you learn?” continued Alexander and looked down at his feet for a second. They moved close to perfectly together with John’s, and the two of them created a fluent and beautiful dance—considering it was taking place in a small tent in a remote encampment.

“My wife,” retorted John, and Alexander felt his heart ache a bit. “She taught me when I was still in London with her. Insisted I lead. What about you?”

“Self-taught,” he answered shortly. He had found it was a good thing to be good at, and had practiced enough hours to be at least adequate. John nodded before smiling, as he playfully spun Alexander around in a twirl. Even Alexander couldn’t keep himself from laughing. The two of them shared a look before they kept dancing, this dance filled with more spins and more fun. The tent soon filled with laughter from the both of them, but Alexander only paid attention to John’s. It all seemed to come together so beautifully, everything was good, and for this moment they had not a bother or care in the world.

Alexander held onto John’s hand and spun around and laughed and had never been happier, and let himself go and felt dizzy for a moment. _Are we going faster?_ They danced and stepped around one another, his hand holding onto John’s and John’s other hand on his waist where he wanted it to stay forever and his own hand on John’s shoulder and they moved and Alexander had fun again and laughed and danced and thrived and held onto John and made a mistake and stepped too close and lost his balance and didn’t have enough time to stop.

As he stumbled and fell he caught a glimpse of John’s arms, stretched out in a matter of milliseconds to catch him. Roughly, they came in contact with one another, and Alexander closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, his face rested an inch away from his best friend’s. John had reached for him and bent down, becoming roughly as tall as him. Rarely had he watched John’s face this close, though he didn’t dislike it. The dim light put shadows on his features but still provided a faint glow, illuminating his face strangely yet nicely. Now he had, for the first time, a view of every little detail in this beautiful face, and could not refrain from exploring it.

Despite John’s often stern look, he had crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes. Even with his eyes wide open, the small creases in his fair skin were still visible. Alexander could have smiled, had he not been preoccupied by managing the shock and fluster he was experiencing at coming so close. At least it was an indication John had laughed a lot in his life at only 23 years old, which would bring Alexander joy on any given day. He noted the strong jawline, the small lines under his eyes, a strand of light brown hair having fallen onto his face as they had danced and danced and danced. The thin yet so desirable lips that Alexander forced himself not to look at because it made him want to kiss them more and more the longer he looked.

“You have freckles.”

Alexander blinked, hearing though not understanding. “What?”

John’s eyes lifted from his cheeks to look into his eyes, barely noticeable if Alexander hadn’t paid attention. “You have freckles,” he repeated, and a small wrinkle appeared on his forehead as if he couldn’t entirely understand the concept of said freckles.

“Yes,” confirmed Alexander and looked between John’s eyes. He felt his face heating up, as if his cheeks were flustered by simply getting looked at. As if he was but a child, shy and scared of every single glance his way. “Vaguely.”

John seemed as intrigued still and observed the bleak freckles that splattered across his face, from one cheek over the bridge of the nose to the other side—Alexander could only marvel at how much they seemed to fascinate his friend. He had never paid much attention to them himself, as they were just a fact that he simply couldn’t change. It was because of his auburn red hair, he’d noticed, as many people with similar color tended to have very similar freckles, though often many more. Perhaps he was lucky not to have gotten as visible ones, as they didn’t draw any attention away from his eyes as he spoke. Except for now.

After a long silence, John opened his mouth again. “I’ve never noticed before.”

“Well,” began Alexander, taking a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. He couldn’t help but look at John’s lips for a second, and cursed himself. “They’re not… I mean, necessarily a bad thing." A moment of hesitation. "Are they?”

Quietly, John regarded him. Alexander couldn’t tell with certainty what he was thinking, eyes clear but expression conveying nothing at all. The air felt thick.

Finally he shook his head. “No.”

Alexander nodded his head the best he could and swallowed a lump in his throat that was immediately replaced by another. “That's... good.”

With one hand, John brushed a few hairs out of Alexander face, fallen down as he had swirled around dancing, and with the other he grabbed onto the side of it with a newfound wariness. His thumb slowly ran over the freckles as if he could feel every individual one against his skin. The pad of John’s thumb was rough, hardened after hours of work and gun handling. Alexander wanted more of it.

Suddenly something insecure shimmered in John’s eyes. “I... I think they’re beautiful.”

Out of John’s mouth fell the sputter of words, quick and difficult to catch had the tent not been silent. Alexander tried desperately to give a smile but might have only caused it to come out weirdly. His thoughts were occupied with the sound of his heart beating, his blood rushing. “That is good to... to...”

He trailed off after trying to make the word somehow sound better where it rolled off his tongue but didn’t feel satisfied, and silence engulfed them once more. Closer than they had ever been before they stood, pressed together as every moment grew tenser. Deep in his mind, Alexander felt desire creeping, oozing out underneath the walls he’d so carefully built to distance himself from his affections. Perhaps it had all from the beginning been a big lie. Perhaps hiding one’s emotion is just something people make seem possible, “if you put your mind to it”. But nobody is quite ever that determined. And if the mind desired, the body craved.

“Forgive me.”

He thought for a second that the words were coming out his mouth. He thought he had just succumbed to his feelings, let it all go. He was thoroughly surprised when he realized his lips hadn’t moved and that John’s face came even closer, his nose brushing against his own.

Their lips connected without a sound, without any real force but simply tenderly, affectionately. It sent a shiver up Alexander’s spine and the sound of his heart became deafening. Despite this he let his eyes fall closed and sank into the kiss. John’s lips were soft, not as if he was kissing a woman, but soft in a sense that they were gentle, passive, allowing for Alexander to pull away from them whenever he wished. Alexander knew he should. He knew men could kiss one another, but he also knew that he, in this moment, was not kissing John as a friend to show his platonic affections. Inside of him there was more; more feelings, more desires, and he knew he should stop because those feelings were beyond wrong.

He didn’t stop. For a handful of minutes, experienced as so many more, he didn’t stop. The deep initial kiss broke into another as John acknowledged Alexander wouldn’t step away, and he pressed closer. Alexander felt the warmth on his face but slowly embraced John, arms going around his middle. All the while he was occupied with John, John, _John_ , feeling a heat rise inside of him which he feared would soon become all too strong and cause him to lose control. More than he already had.

He let John dictate the direction they went in, holding onto him, but it was still heartbreaking to stop as John’s lips left his. The both of them panted to regain a steady heartbeat and locked eyes.

“P-please, forgive me...” said John, a shakiness in his voice that Alexander had never heard anything remotely close to in all of his and John’s friendship. “I don't... I-I don't know what I—”

“Please, shut up,” interrupted Alexander, and John’s lips tasted even sweeter when he kissed them once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't found a single source that speaks of how tall John Laurens was except that he was taller than Alexander Hamilton, so this is purely guessing. Again, I used _Surrender of Lord Cornwallis_ for some reference, where it looks as though he is quite a few inches taller than Alexander, who was 5'7". George Washington with his 6'2" frame is said to have "towered" over Hamilton, whereas Laurens is not described in a similar way at all. This makes me estimate that Laurens was probably around 5'10" to 5'11".  
>  I also don't know if Edwards was actually an asshole, but here he is!


	5. The Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG TIME NO READ — APOLOGIES
> 
> Name is now also changed to myrapf (used to be imakebadpuns) to correspond with my tumblr which you can check out [here](https://myrapf.tumblr.com/)! I'll make art and whatnot, it'll be fun!

_December 23, 1778_

 

In the morning he was awakened by the sound of steps outside the tent, and slowly came to his senses. The sky was still dark, a weak splash of orange tinting the very bottom line of the horizon. Alexander lay still for a minute in the chill break of day, before sitting up and examining the sliver of sunrise visible through the slit between the two tent flaps swaying lightly in the breeze.

_A moan. Gasping for breath. Nails digging into skin, leaving crescent marks to fade away slowly._

Alexander closed his eyes and let his face rest in his hands, as if he could rub all the sleep away. _It did not happen,_ he told himself and drew a deep breath to calm his heart already beating faster because of the mere thoughts and pictures his mind was providing him with. _It did not happen._

_The reaching for a button. Hot breathing. Arms like ropes, tangling, hands grabbing._

He felt a chill run through him as the wind blew in through the tent flaps, and drew his makeshift blankets a little tighter around himself. Lord, did he wish he wouldn’t have to get up just yet. But then again, with these thoughts creeping around the corners of his mind, threatening to drag him down to the deepest and most passionate pits of his brain—perhaps he should occupy himself with something else.

_It’s too hot. Oh, God. I’m suffocating._

He lay down once more and turned on his side, facing the canvas wall. He closed his eyes hard this time, hoping somewhere that it would bring his mind some peace and quiet. Or perhaps even that it would wake him from this dream— _nightmare—_ if he was lucky enough. It did not appear to be working.

_“John…”_

He sighed. The bed creaked a little as he rolled around and threw a glance across the room. Light brown hair in a ruffled bun sticking up over the edge of the blanket, as if innocently looking back at him.

_“John, I want you.”_

If there was anything in his life he wished he could make undone, it would have been those words. Those words now playing on repeat in his head were hauntingly echoing stronger each time, and it was slowly but surely driving him insane.

_Silence._

He had expected more, he supposed. Then he realized he had no reason to do so. Perhaps it had all been some form of trick his mind had played on him, making him believe that it would all be fine in the end. How didn’t matter all too much. For so long he had believed things would turn out in his favor and that his feelings were mimicked. Perhaps he was too oblivious for his own good, taking a kiss for so much more than it was in reality.

_A ghosting of lips on his. A hand lingering on his cheek, another hovering over the last button. Frozen in time._

He remained still, looking at the other side of the room. The body underneath the bunched up blanket must have been warm, just like last night. Warm hands, warm face, warm smile. Everything about John Laurens was warm and welcoming. Except, it had all fallen out of his reach because of three words he wished he never would have spoken.

_“I want you.”_

So bland, so juvenile. He remembered the way that bright spark had disappeared from John’s eyes, turning even darker in the tent deprived of light. In that very moment, he swore he regretted everything. He meant it, more than many other things he had ever said, but he regretted it more than many other things as well. John did not speak for a minute.

_“It is late.”_

And that was it. His dream come true transformed into reality once more, as John looked him in the eye and said those words. Of course, he’d meant a great deal more than that. He’d meant _Stop._ He’d meant _I can’t do this._ And though it seemed unlikely, these words cut deep like a bayonet, penetrating his insides before twisting, continuously twisting. It wasn’t a cruel remark—he should have known from the beginning—but nonetheless it buried itself under his skin and stung like venom in his veins. He could not help but wonder what would have happened if he’d kept his mouth shut. Would they have continued? How far? Would they have ended up fulfilling a dream Alexander had kept hidden inside his head for so long, having him burn and itch to reveal himself though simultaneously being bound by a pair of invisible shackles holding him back from the truth?

_Silence._

He had tried to correct his mistake.

_“John, forgive me, I—”_

As always.

_“No, Alexander. It’s fine. Please.”_

He had failed.

_“I am terribly sorry.”_

As always.

_“It’s fine. I better get to bed. You too.”_

It had been true—one should never lose sleep before a duel of this importance. He had just wished for that bed to be the same for the two of them. Buried in sheets, united by love. Perhaps he wasn’t any different. Perhaps he wasn’t the lover but merely the best friend, and he’d just ruined everything. Perhaps all he was, was childishly naive.

 _“Mon Dieu,”_ said an awfully familiar voice outside their tent, ripping Alexander away from further daydreaming. “The two of you are still asleep?”

Through the flaps of the tent appeared the face of the Marquis de Lafayette, raising his eyebrows as soon as he made eye contact with Alexander. He did not have time for a greeting, and seemed excited. “It is a beautiful day, you two must get out of bed now! Laurens!”

John did not seem humored. A low murmur escaped him, words unintelligible to anyone but himself.

 _“Incroyable,”_ muttered Lafayette, shaking his head in disappointment. “Alexander, bring him out of bed and come meet with us. We are gathered at the center fire. Hurry now!”

With once he withdrew from the tent, leaving it to return to its previously silent state. Alexander did not dare speak for fear he would ruin the atmosphere. Carefully and quietly he stood, leaving his bed made as if entirely untouched. He dressed in a similar fashion, taking the time to even braid his hair. This day certainly was not as exciting as the Marquis made it out to be. Granted, without being a fool, he possessed the unawareness of one. Free from the weight of knowing what was to take place, he remained happy. _Indeed,_ Alexander thought enviously, _ignorance is bliss._

With his back turned to the tent, about to exit, he heard John stir in his bed. He mumbled something again, rustled and moved around. Alexander’s instinct was to ignore him, get out of there because of the shame he felt for yesterday’s mishap, but he stopped.

“John, I…” he said, looking down at his shoes before turning to look at his friend. He was slightly bleary-eyed, a tired haze lingering on his face. “I apologize. For yesterday. You mustn’t think less of me for this, because I cannot afford to lose a friend like you.”

Every second passed in silence felt like a stab to the chest, and Alexander’s legs threatened to give up after a minute. Thankfully John spoke.

“I hold nothing against you, my friend,” he said. Alexander let out a breath he was unaware he had been holding. John seemed to smile. “You are quite brilliant, and I don't believe you have ever wronged me in a major way in our shared history." He paused, something unfortunate flittering in his eyes as he finally looked up. "But I fear we cannot be... associates in more ways than we already are.”

 _I fear._ Those words sent a shiver up Alexander’s spine. He wanted more. He wanted them to be more. _I fear._ Was he simply too afraid?

In a second, it seemed as if John tried lightening the mood. “Now you must go,” he said, suddely energetic as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Or you will miss the briefing. We will meet soon enough again.”

Alexander looked him over for a minute. He seemed calm, content with the crisp air of the December morning, at ease with their situation. Alexander knew it was an act. Surely John was mostly a peaceful man, easily pleased and happy with life itself, and there was no harm in this. Yet, they were both painfully aware of their meeting with Lee later in the day, a meeting that could prove to be fatal. He knew John did not take light on this. He knew John had not come to terms with this. He knew John was seething with resentment and disgust, eager to pull a trigger and once and for all put an end to the scum that was Charles Lee. Alexander knew all this, and concluded John must be even stronger than he had thought as he managed to keep that untouched look on his face.

Finally he nodded, though he could not muster up a smile. “Good luck out there, John. And... I want you to know that I meant it. What I said.”

John looked him in the eyes, silent. It was clear he understood exactly what he had referred to. Just as Alexander was about to turn and leave, he spoke. “I know.” In his eyes was something akin to pity, though perhaps even sadder. “I know.”

Alexander nodded once more, almost courtly, and left the tent. He wiped at his eye in the cold morning, denying himself to feel weak and vulnerable. Fellow soldiers were not supposed to see a lieutenant colonel shedding tears. Channeling all the inner authority he could muster before anyone spotted him, he strode to the center fire, coming up next to the Marquis de Lafayette to partake in the morning briefing.

Before he knew it, the hours had passed. He did not see John throughout the day, until meeting him at their decided place and time. Both of them wore a gloom look in their eyes, John nodding a greeting at him. He wished he could make it all undone. It certainly was easier to be wise, knowing what they were about to do—what _John_ was about to do—after the initial anger and passion had died down. An excitement, he pondered, takes you by the hand and throws you into situations straight ahead, forcing you to deal with it the best you can. And evidently, the best you can is not always enough.

Alexander felt all types of guilt as he stepped up to John, motioning for them to take their leave. They did not exchange words, neither did they facially express anything besides formality. As if they weren’t friends at all, but simply allies. As if they hadn’t nearly spent the previous night together. He knew he could have stopped this, after yesterday’s turn of events he wished nothing more than to stop what was about to come. Now, there was no going back. There was no regretting, no changing to what was set to happen, they both knew this all too well. You don't get to change the past, he thought and clenched his fist by his side. You don't get to meddle with or travel in time.

And so, together in silence they walked to the duelling ground.

***

The December air hung heavy on their shoulders as they examined the field. It was plain, remote from camp, yet close enough for a good listener to hear the gunshots go off. A few trees were planted on the south and west sides, providing no shelter from the frigid Eastern wind whatsoever, and every one of the four men felt a shiver go through them at least once.

Four men would enter and four men would walk away, albeit one wounded. This was no fact, as the two combatants closely regarded their weapons. If not a sweat on their forehead, then a chest restraining a thumping heart. Would it be them who were to be shot? Would it be a scrape, would they have time to counter the attack with one of their own? Or perhaps it would be fatal, a meeting with a bullet transforming into a meeting with Death? They were not duelling to death, yet one could never be certain if the bullet ended up penetrating a vital organ or such. Paying the price of life itself was a wish neither of the two desired, and a third one did not dare burdening his mind with such darkness at all—it was simply unthinkable. Victory, he thought, was the only way out of this.

His friend wore a stern look on his face as he trained his eyes on the enemy, a man they both despised from the depths of their souls. He seemed small and ugly, if not devilish then undoubtedly sinister, and no less than sly. The two of them knew it was their subjective point of view manifesting, thinking the horrible things they did as they gazed upon the former general. But ultimately, they thought, such vile things would never reach their mouths and cause any trouble—thus the two could not care any less about the wretched words forming in their heads. They would have shared them between one another, laughing unceremoniously, had this not been a duel.

With the weapons loaded, as both seconds could confirm, the shortest glanced over at his friend. As with his hatred for the man on the other side of the field, his mind once more spewed words that would never be voiced. However, they were anything but wretched. He lamented the fact that he could never have the one thing he desired most, thinking perhaps it was some kind of cue. The way of the world to tell him just how wrong it was. The man he devoted his heart to was unobtainable, and a married man nonetheless.

_You should have stopped a long time ago. It cannot be._

He sighed, earning a look from the man in question. He didn’t attempt to explain himself, for what could he say? He would fumble with his words and manage nothing of importance. The meaning of any word that might travel past his lips would be as parched as his throat however he went about it. All of it felt... pointless.

The other duelist appeared to be readying himself, exchanging a few words with his second and the doctor that said second had brought, as he fingered with the trigger of his pistol. He was seemingly carefree about whether he ended up pulling it or not, a small action upsetting his enemy something disproportionately. His second placed a hand on his shoulder, witnessing the scene as well, and the two exchanged a look. The taller asked for luck, and the shorter simply nodded his head. Luck, he thought, unable to give voice to a single word. They could use some luck for once. Considering a negotiation had barely taken place at all, perhaps luck really was all they could hope for now.

The duel was to begin, they agreed. It was a duel not to death, but until one of them either fell or laid himself down in defeat. Their weapons loaded, breathing even, eyes trained on each other. Akin to hunters stalking a prey, or perhaps coming face to face with said prey, and it becoming clear only then that it may very well possess the power to kill the hunter himself. What a frightening realization that must be—knowing you were not the most ferocious power to be reckoned with in the world.

 _Ten paces,_ the second thought, watching his best friend close his eyes and take a deep breath, fingers clenching around the gun in his hand. A fine craft, indeed, with small silver details. Originally intended to kill. His enemy possessed one of great resemblance, most probably a complete copy. Though, it was his friend's weapon that the red-haired second had put his trust in—that he wished victory upon as he closed his eyes in the intrusive fog pushing up between and around them like a thief.

One, two, three, four.

He clasped his hands together behind his back, mumbling quietly in the cold morning a prayer. To God, to a higher power, to anyone who might be listening.  _Spare him,_ he prayed.  _Spare his life this once._

Five, six, seven, eight, nine.

_Please._

Ten paces— _fire._

The second gasped for breath and clutched a hand to his chest, eyes flying wide open. He barely registered the three pairs of eyes turning to look at him, the fourth ones disappearing as their owner stumbled to his knees. The pain prickled his skin and punched his insides, stabbing holes in his chest and abdomen. There was a far cry of his name, so distant yet so familiar. He could not look up, could not meet the eyes of the one who called. Neither could he speak. He was trapped in the agony of a bullet to the chest—it  _must_ have been. It was impossible anything else could cause such pain and such anguish down to his very bone and  _soul._

He fell slowly, as if pushed backwards by a force invisible to his own eyes. The dark sky glared at him, letting him catch just a glimpse of the sunset far away above the trees before his eyes rolled back in his head and he hit the ground. It was colder than the air, and bore a thin sheet of frost that was crushed underneath him with a horrid noise—as if breaking a twig. He heard his name called again, and again, and again. He heard it so many times, it lost all meaning to him. But it was him who called. _Him. He was_ _alive._

 _If I must die for you to spare him,_ he thought, knowing well that it was his very last. _S_ _o be it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not _entirely_ sure about the technicalities and details of duels—order of preparations and such—so I ask you to be kind to me!  
>   
>  French:  
>  _Incroyable_ = Unbelievable  
>  _Mon Dieu_ = My God


	6. Brand New

_Date unknown_

 

Everything was black.

Like a blanket of finest velvet, soft underneath the fingertips as one ran a hand over it, it dragged over him, around him. Free from the shackles of mortality, he was roaming some place unknown. It felt strange yet familiar, a warm thrum in his core. To feel soothed by it, to relax and simply give in to the feeling. There was no need for a body to do such a thing. Had he ever had one to begin with?

He seemed to be floating. Aimlessly, free from any ails or bothers in a vacuum where nothing mattered. He possessed no emotions, no cares, no sense of anything at all. For a moment, it all seemed so... empty. That was the word he had been looking for. Empty.

Nothing but a big, black void.

Empty.

A flicker of light caught his attention. Like a gasp it lit up and then died, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He wondered briefly about its purpose and whether he should fear it or not. In a world of darkness, perhaps light was the enemy, meant to be fought. It was an anomaly, after all. The world rarely welcomed such things.

The light sprung to life once more in the exact same spot it had earlier, this time colored a bright blue. It didn't disappear immediately as it had previously done either, but seemed to hover in the darkness for a while. Perhaps it was another life form, as fascinated about him as he was about it. Or it could all be non-existent, a product of his imagination. He had no knowledge of this place, but he could not muster a care. If he was truly alone, maybe that did not matter all too much.

However, he could not restrain his interest. In pure curiosity, he tried making sound. A thrum came from somewhere deep in his core, low and steady, and the light instantly ceased existing. He fell silent and relaxed once more, enveloped by the black velvet. In the back of his mind was a nagging sensation, his unsatisfied curiosity manifesting. He let thoughts about the surrounding emptiness occupy him to get rid of it.

A quiet whine suddenly reverberated through him, its source invisible to his sight. Like a mellow violin, slowly playing a high note in minor key. It brought to his inner eye pictures of rain and ashen trees, a sensation running through him. It was much too alike that of having his entire being encased in ice for him to remain comfortable, and he thrummed once more. For an indeterminable amount of time, there was nothing. Whether it was a short moment or a long one, he could not decide or estimate. Those very words seemed foreign to him, because in the void time was simply a concept. It did not actually exist.

He stirred at another whine, louder and longer this time. It assaulted his mind, rising until it was nearly screeching. It was abhorrent, a miserable sound produced only by a miserable being—it would be insanity to assume anything else. As a matter of fact, that sort of sound shouldn't be able to come out of  _any_ being. Possibly two objects grinding against each other, screeching and squealing, but a living, breathing  _being_... It was sick.

Then, without warning, it ceased. Silence was once more restored.

Only, this time it did not sate him. Curiosity in such a place was foolish—as much was obvious. There should be no need for curiosity in the first place, for there was nothing to be seen or heard, smelled, felt or tasted. There was nothing to be curious about, this fact only adding to his frustration.

A small tingle seared through his core and he turned, shifting where he floated in nothingness. He almost leaned away, coming face to face with a bright blue. The light from before hovered so close to him, he could reach forward and come in contact with it if he so wished, but with the newfound intensity of its glow he decided to keep his distance. Rather wariness than stupidity.

Another sound rang through the darkness, and it was clear it was coming from the light source. This one was lighter, quieter, almost conveying a cautiousness of the creature. Could it even be called such—a creature? It had no body, nothing tying it to a physical form defining it as such. But then again, he supposed, neither did he even though he certainly was  _something._ A simple mind, bound to perhaps nothing but itself. A free mind.

The ball of light made yet another sound, coming off as what could only be described as impatient. It hummed, squeaked, chirped for his attention, so close it occupied the majority of his field of view. Around it, if possibly even brighter—however much thinner—a halo had taken shape. It seemed to spin slowly in peace, completely balanced as it orbited the blue concentration of light. It had a strange attraction, something beautiful coming over it and its entire composition. He could not assign words to it, but such would not be needed—neither he nor the light could muster speech or communicate further than thrums and chirps anyway.

In the back of his mind the nagging feeling had dissipated. Now, it had been replaced by a sense of wonder, oddly coherent for a being like himself. The light didn't seem dangerous upon further inspection, and his previous premonitions faded like the tide slowly ebbing out. It wanted something, but that something was not harm. It did not seek destruction or suffering, it did not desire to see him in pain. With its stirring and restless chirping, and with the limited amounts of things existing in this blackness, he could assume only one thing that it could possibly want from him.

Contact.

It wanted contact.

He had many questions; about how the light had gotten here; about what would happen if he came in contact with it; about why it sought contact from the very beginning. But ultimately, he found it did not matter. As nothing in this world mattered, darkness being the only prominent and distinguishable feature, this could not possible make a difference. Or perhaps it could. But if so was the case, then he would at least experience something else than the black nothingness. He pondered if he could live to tell a tale about it—but then again, to whom would he tell such a tale? He was alone. Alone and completely severed from anything but the void.

He had nothing to lose.

With a fumbling movement he reached out, leaning towards the light. It made a curious sound, a gaily sort of  _ping,_ and glowed brighter with a pulse. Its very aura suddenly appeared warm, a greeting, a welcoming into something new and brighter.  _Marvelous_ _,_ he thought as he gazed upon it and it started to expand.  _What is this?_

It pulsated once more, and suddenly the small orb split down the middle. He recoiled, surprised at the unexpected cracking of the light source, but remained close out of sheer fascination. From within the now broken hovering sphere, something that was seemingly a liquid as bright as that blue light itself started pouring. He watched, frozen by its side as it kept bubbling— _oozing—_ out, dripping down into the bottomless nothingness. There was not a sound to be heard, the thick liquid slowly running over the edges of the ball cracked in half, and it left him feeling both disgusted and even more intrigued. What a peculiar thing indeed, those feelings; contradicting one another yet not battling for dominance in his mind. They co-existed and seemed satisfied, strangely enough.

Unable to hold his curiosity back he reached for the orb once more, and suddenly felt a surge run through his very being. Down to the bone it found its way and shook him for the slightest moment before it continued traveling in a wide circle, the light source its middle. In the same moment, the tips of two appendages suddenly appeared before him, as if painted into view by the oozing liquid. He remained tentative, reaching forwards once more.

This time, an entire limb became visible, one just as bright as the liquid and the blue light, before he abruptly pulled it back to inspect it. Certainly, it was connected to him. He could make it clench and unclench, wiggle the five fingers attached to the palm and even make them touch one another. For a moment he lost track of his actions, entirely immersed with exploring this newfound part of him, before finally collecting himself. He directed his attention back to the orb displaying no signs of running out of that bright liquid, before he plunged.

From his hand sprouted an arm, and disconnected from it he found another hand. A speck of it further away from these hinted there was more, and soon he had discovered a thigh and a connected knee as well. Slowly but surely, he was introduced to new limbs and appendages, drowned in what might as well have been liquid light.

 _Such wonderful things!_ he thought, turning and bending as he discovered feet and toes, seemingly similar to his hands and fingers yet all so different.  _So new! So fascinating, so fantastic!_ How could such a miracle come to be? He had not needed a body before, but finally getting a taste of it had irrevocably changed his mind.

_He had a body!_

He had hands, fingers that could bend, a chest where something warm thumped rhythmically—all brought to him by the fascinating, broken ball of brightness. Oh, how could he ever show his gratitude? How could he ever repay such a great deed?

With a tender hand he reached for the orb, in his fascination with his new body having failed to notice how its bright blue color had turned a much darker shade, hovering still yet swaying from side to side. He stopped before he could touch it, guarded.

Allowed not even a second to gather his thoughts, a muffled whine emitted from the floating orb. It was so quiet, it seemed to come from somewhere far away—from a distance impossible to reach out there in the dark. With time it built in pitch and strength, and transformed from a sound into a noise.

 _Stop it,_  he pleaded in his inability yet to speak words.  _Stop._

The floating ball of what had once been light but had now turned dark— _corrupt_ —did not stop. Its whining grew so greatly he was left no choice but to slam his hands over his new ears, feeling them crumble underneath the sheer force of the impact.

_Stop it! Stop it now!_

The noise reached unfathomable heights as it started screeching and crackling, and sparks flew through the pitch black atmosphere. With no sense of direction they spread in every single angle, the orb acting their center point. As one of them connected with his delicate skin, he gave a roar of pain.

The sparks  _burned_.

On his forearm was now an utmost horrible mark, as red as blood itself as it began crawling across his skin. It seemed like a creature on its own, possessing thin, long legs that grew and wrapped around his limb as if it meant to strangle his blood flow. One quick touch to the burn caused him to pull away even faster, as the skin on his other hand began burning equally as bad.

_Make right this time._

He turned his head, searching. It had been faint, that voice, yet he could have sworn it had indeed been a voice. He yowled as yet another spark seared into him, leaving its mark brightly and clearly clumsily over half his chest and shoulder. 

_Why are you doing this?_

The orb gave no response—it simply remained where it had been since its appearance, hovering.

 _Make right,_ suddenly hissed a wind in his ears. With fingers sharp as bone it prodded and poked at him, and as he attempted to bat the invisible force away from his skin he only rewarded himself with an abundance of burn marks from the leaking orb.

A fresh scream was ripped from his lungs as four claws sunk into his cheek and pulled. It travelled over the bottomless blackness, finding not a solid thing to reverberate against, and remained echoless. As echoless was the shattering of his arm, the spider-like burn having turned a sour black against his bright, golden skin. With a crack and the sound of sharp glass edges rubbed against one another, his arm was no more. The beauty he had been granted so easily taken away. How would he replace such a thing? It was a part of him, lost to darkness and drowned in his own despair.

_I beg of you, don't do this!_

Another spark sizzled into his skin, sent towards him with the speed of a train. It started pushing, gnawing through his very core, and he screamed as he doubled over in agony. Why he screamed was beyond him, was beyond anything in this world. Who would hear him?

Though as pieces of his shoulder rained, as his knees buckled and calf exploded, there was nothing more to do than to scream. Asking himself questions, wondering what he did to deserve such a cruel fate. All he had left was a dry voice in an endless darkness.

_Make right._

Slowly, he felt the very light inside of him seeping. As if his growing amount of wounds and shattered body parts were bleeding him dry of his inner glow.  _Perhaps_ , he pondered, curling on himself as claws buried in his neck, tearing shreds down to his abdomen.  _Perhaps reason is beyond me. Perhaps I have done nothing wrong._

_Perhaps all life is, is simply cruel._

***

_“Alexander?”_

The voice was the softest he’d heard in his entire lifetime. It was lined with worry, a fondness yet a cooling calm. There was a smile on the lips of whoever had found him like this, broken and cold.

_“Alexander? Are you alright?”_

He wasn’t. Missing limbs, dignity, and a grasp on what might be real and what might not, and whether either of them could be trusted, he was in no way alright. But it did not matter. 

 _Let me see,_ he pleaded _. Let me see who speaks with such innocence and care. I beg of you._

_One last time._

Not many things had made logical sense before. Not in the darkness. But being ripped apart, being ripped away from endless blackness to end up hearing a voice that sounded so much like... like  _his_... He needed to  _see._

_One last time._

When he opened his eyes, there was only light.

_One. Last. Time._

“John?”


End file.
